Dragon Age: Imperium
by out.of.sea.into.woods
Summary: Thirty years after the defeat of Corypheus, the children of the Inquisitor must dive into the plots of Tevinter and the machinations of the elves in order to save all of Thedas from destruction.
1. The Bloodied Gown

Cassie should have considered the blood.

The spy crumpled to the stone floor without a sound, sliding off her dagger with a wet _plop_! But the burst of blood from their stomach splattered the front of her gown.

"Fuck," she murmured under her breath. She wiped the blade along the corpse's clothes before sliding it into the hidden sheath inside her corset. She examined the face as well as she could in the dim torchlight. Elvish, but that she had guessed from the lithe body. No vallaslin marred the clear, young face. A girl, no older than fifteen. Her eyes were wide open with surprise.

Cassie searched the body but found only an unmarked dagger and a small flask of green liquid. She smelt the flask- poison. There was no time to linger, however, and Cassie had to hide the body _and_ cover the blood on her gown. She tossed the body over her shoulder, and began the trek to her personal chambers.

She had stumbled upon the secret passageways a few hours after arriving at the Winter Palace. Her informants had told her that there were hidden passages throughout the palace, but had been unable to get a map. In her room of resplendent mauve and silver, Cassie found a switch hidden behind a tapestries depicting two women pleasuring themselves by a rosebush (which she quite liked). That led to a staircase, which led to a circular room with over twenty doors. Cassie had been careful, tearing scraps from her headscarf and tying them to the torches to mark her path.

She hadn't meant to find the spy, who was carefully climbing through one of the windows, dangerously high from the ground. She watched from behind the corner as a rope fell down, and the spy shimmied to the floor. She watch the spy draw her blade, examining it in the dim light. The spy turned around and caught sight of her. Cassie straightened up and feigned surprise- it wasn't the first time she had stumbled on a would-be assassin. But this time, the assassin came for her. That was when Cassie struck.

After a few minutes of painfully slow back-tracking, Cassie managed to find her room again. She dropped the body onto the floor, gasping for breath.

"Cassie," she heard Fila from behind the silk screen. "I was wondering if we should try the- oh!" The dwarf gasped as she came round the corner, almost dropping her glass of wine.

"Yeah, I met a friend while doing some exploring." Cassie grunted, dropping the body. "She's a little worse for wear."

"I can see that," Fila said dryly. She sighed and set down her glass, rolling up the sleeves of her deep green dress shirt. "Where are we putting that thing?

The closet was a bit too obvious for a body, and if they pushed it under the bed, the stink would linger and she would be forced to smell it for the next few days. Fila suggested the window seat, which lifted to reveal a cabinet of sorts. With some difficulty, they managed to stuff the body into it, trying not to look into the corpse's eyes.

Satisfied, she turned to the dress, considering her reflection in a huge, gilded mirror. The goldenrod fabric did nothing to disguise the blood splatters.

"Should you keep them?" Fila asked. Bloodstains were no stranger to the Orlesian court and a few years ago, it was quite fashionable to display the fruits of your killings. But this was not the type of event to show off murder, and the spy would need to be investigated.

An idea struck Cassie, and she quickly grabbed Fila's wine glass.

"Hey!" Fila said, disgruntled. Cassie ignored her and, taking one long sip, she dipped her dagger into it and began splattering the rest of the dress. After five minutes of thorough staining, she now looked rather _avant_ - _garde_ , like a slice of sunshine speckled with rosebuds.

She was fixing her makeup when the servant came to fetch her.

Cassie smoothed her dress, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach. How many times had she entered this ballroom, yet she still felt nervous.

"Cassandra Beatrix Trevelyan-Rutherford. Imperatrix of the Inquisition. The Young Lioness!"

Cassie took a confident step forward as all eyes turned to her. Her hair was just right, her dress was just right. The neckline dipped just low enough to give ample view of her supple breasts. She tripped over the hem of her dress- no, she kicked it out from under her. She walked with deadly grace, and the room respected her for it. It was just another kind of battle, she knew. The kind of battle fought with bejeweled masks and champagne glasses.

The Winter Palace had never looked so beautiful. Silver banners cascaded over the shimmering dance floor, now a muddy pool of ballgowns and dancing couples. The candle light set everything to glisten like jewels- even the ugliest of masks were lovely in the light. Celene's Silver Jubilee had been celebrated across the land with festivals and parades, but nothing would compare to the ball in the heart of Orlais.

Antivan wine flowed endlessly from enchanted fountains. Tables heavy with food lined the walls: spit roasted rabbits, drizzled in honey. A salad from Seheron with goat cheese and dressing the color of dragonfire. Lemon cakes speckled with poppy seeds. Attracting the most of the crowd, though, was the Tortured Peacock- a bird, blinded, and force fed pounds of sweet dates, kept in a cauldron of rum for three days, then boiled alive.

Cassie walked through the ballroom confidently, keeping her eyes unfocused, but alert. She stopped at the top of the staircase, looking down on the dancing couples. A cool hand rested on her shoulder. She turned to look.

"Rosamund." She leaned in to embrace her friend. "You look ravishing."

The Duchess smiled coyly. "Cassandra, your admiration is it's own reward." She looked Cassie up and down. "Your dress is _exquis_ \- like a battlefield in summer!"

"Yes, that was the idea." Cassie said tightly. Rosamund nodded in understanding and waved over a servant, who gave them each goblets filled with champagne. Rosamund _did_ look ravishing. Her dress was in cool lavender and fitted tight across her curves. Her skin was a deep, earthy brown, shining like polished mahogany.

"How was your journey to the Palace?" Rosamund asked her.

"Quiet." Cassie said. "The road from Val Royeaux to Halamshiral is quite clear this time of year." That was a lie- Cassie had to cut down at least three different bandit gangs that were foolish enough to attack the Inquisitor's daughter.

"So I've been told." Rosamund sipped her champagne and stroked Cassie's cheek. No doubt she was disappointed in Cassie's bareface. Rosamund's own mask was inlaid with sapphires in the shape of tears, dripping from her ebony black eyes. Cassie had learned not to trust the masks. They hurt just as much as they helped in the Game. Cassie always went without a mask- it lulled people into trusting her, into believing she was naive. At least, it did when she was younger. Now, Orlais knew who the Young Lioness really was.

Cassie leaned into Rosamund and kissed her cheek. The nobles around them began furiously whispering, giving her enough time to whisper, "I found a spy. Meet in my rooms after."

Rosamund returned the kiss and said, "Cassandra, my dear, you'll have to excuse me. The Dowager Princess is glaring at me and I must see what she desires." Her skirts flew about her as she elegantly turned away. Cassie smiled and turned her gaze back to the dance floor.

Dancing with Princess Celenia, Prince Maric of Ferelden looked positively overwhelmed. What little of his face she could see from under his bright red mask was flushed from trying to keep up with the lively waltz. When the song ended, and he was able to catch his breath, he looked up at Cassie, and gave her a quick nod. She quickly looked away- which caused the nobles to begin whispering once again.

Officially, Cassie and Maric were over. But that was a load of horse shit. Every year or so, Cassie planned a huge public fight to make the masses believe their relationship was done. They would publicly reconcile in a few months, but for now, Maric had to sneak into Cassie's chambers (literally and figuratively). These breaks kept the marriage pressure in check- although, Maric still proposed every chance he could. What once was a romantic inside joke had become a serious proposition, now that she was 28, and the responsibilities of her position threatened to drown her.

Cassie downed her drink, trying to shake off her thoughts. If someone hired that spy, there might still be blood drawn tonight, and she had to be alert.

"Lord Cullen Stanton Trevelyan-Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition's forces. Inquisitor Evelyn Mafalda Trevelyan-Rutherford of Skyhold! Leader of the Inquisition, and savior of Thedas!"

Like the rest of the room, Cassie turned to watch her parents enter. Besides her, they were the only ones barefaced. Her mother was dressed in a deep midnight colored gown with simple golden epaulettes and embroidery along the hem. Evelyn's hair was pulled back, with soft tendrils framing her face. Her father wore his traditional red and gold formal suit he had worn to every formal event for the past thirty- no one would take offense to this fashion faux pas, since half of Orlais still wanted to sleep with him.

The masses ooed and awed at the couple for a few moments, and as they dispersed, Cassie managed to slip in beside her mother.

"We got your message," Father said, touching her arm. "Are you alright?" Cassie reached out and gripped her father's forearm tightly, trying to stop him.

"Father," she said. "Mother. It's wonderful to see you again."

Her mother nodded, and said stiffly, "You look well, Cassie." A duchess nearby giggled and whispered to her husband quickly. Cassie stifled a sigh. She loved her parents endlessly, but they were helpless in the Orlesian court.

"Come," she motioned them towards the other end of the hall. "We should pay our respects to the Empress."

As they walked along the dance floor, the trio caught every eye in the house, but no one stopped to speak to them. The Herald of Andraste, though well loved, was known to be a useless player of the Game, her husband even worse than her.

Surrounded by her courtiers, Empress Celene looked drowned in silk and velvet gowns. Her own violet gown with silver stars looked heavy enough to crush her. The Empress turned towards them and smiled brilliantly. Her mask, the polished silver visage of a lioness, expertly hid the wrinkles that powder could not cover.

"Inquisitor." Celene said in a soft voice. "I am honored that you have come."

"The honor is mine, Your Radiance." Mother took the Empress' hand and gave her a swift kiss.

"I am glad to see you and your husband looking so well."

"You're beauty is still, uhm, _radiant_. Your Imperial Majesty." Father stumbled along his words and quickly went into a boy. Celene smiled modestly. Her beauty _wasn't_ radiant, as she well knew, but the flattery certainly meant something.

"I do hope that your stay at Halamshiral is more peaceful than your last few visits," Celene said, her hands pressed together at her waist.

Mother laughed. "The Winter Palace without an assassination plot just doesn't feel quite the same." A bit macabre of a joke, but Celene was gracious and laughed as well.

"I do hope we can still entertain, Lady Inquisitor." Celene turned her gaze to Cassie. "My dear Cassandra, will you be staying on with us once the celebrations are done?"

"Would that I could, Your Radiance," Cassie said, curtsying. "As it happens, business in Val Royeaux has forced me to make this visit brief."

"A pity. Your presence always does make the Winter Palace a bit brighter."

"Inquisitor," Prince Reynaurd came up beside the Empress. "How lovely to see you again. Commander. _Cassie_ …" Behind his golden mask, his green eyes were coy. "You are the second loveliest thing in the room."

"Only the second?" Cassie asked, feigning wounded pride.

"Second, to my glorious aunt." He smiled at Celene.

"Reynaurd, _please_." The Empress giggled and rested a hand on his shoulder.

Reynaurd had been born to Grand Duke Gaspard a few years after the defeat of Corypheus, and was almost immediately fostered by Celene in Halamshiral. After Gaspard's death, Reynaurd was declared Celene's heir. Cassie thought it a fair choice- Reynaurd had no ambitions past who he would take to bed that night. And by the looks of it, he hoped it would be Cassie.

One of Celene's handmaidens leaned in and whispered into her ear. "Please, if you could excuse me." The trio bowed once more as the Empress glided away.

"How have you found your stay at the Winter Palace so far, my lady?" Reynaurd asked.

"The usual, Your Imperial Highness," Cassie said.

"Perhaps we could find something new for you to experience." Reynaurd stroked her cheek, allowing his fingers to run down her neck. Cassie smiled, trying to distract him from her father's barely contained fury.

"Perhaps we can. If you could excuse us- Your Imperial Highness." She bowed to him and guided her parents away. "Father," she said in low tones. "You could try to hide your fury a _little_ better."

"He had his hands _on_ you, Cassie!" He whispered angrily.

"He is also going to be Emperor soon, so it's best not to antagonize him." She sighed. "I think we can slip away- meet in my room later. I've already told the others."

"Will you be alright?" Mother asked, her eyes wide with concern. Cassie held her hand, squeezing it gently.

"There's no one who could hurt me, Mother."

"And there was nothing you could find on the body?" Father asked. In a plain shirt and trousers, he was looking far more comfortable than in the ballroom. Mother too, dressed in a shapeless brown dress. They had changed while Cassie, Fila, and Maric stripped the body, wrapped it in plain cloth, and tossed it into the river. Rosamond and Maric were sitting at the table, sipping their wine and watching Cassie. Fila napped on Cassie's huge bed, tired out from their riverside excursion.

"Only this." Cassie threw the dagger into the huge oaken table. It stuck in the wood, gleaming in the candle light. "And this." She held up the green vial. Mother took it from her, popped open the cap with her thumb, and gingerly smelled it.

"Adder's Kiss." She said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

"Could it have been an attack against Celene?" Maric asked.

Rosamund shook her head. "Motive, darling. Who gains from an unclaimed assassination?"

"Reynaurd." Maric countered.

"Yes, but why no mark on the blade?" Cassie asked. "Why not claim the murder for himself? Or blame it on another house, have a target to move the nation against? Anyway, Reynaurd isn't clever enough to plan this."

"The De Montforts?" Rosamund suggested. "They've been brewing since Reynaurd was declared heir. Perhaps-"

"She saw me." Cassie muttered. "She looked me in the eyes and knew who I was."

"Yes?" Mother said.

"Well, don't you see? Any Orlesian bard would flee from me, they'd know not to fight someone who wasn't their target. _This_ one came saw me and tried to kill me."

"You mean she was sent for you?" Father asked.

"Maybe." Cassie sighed and poured herself another glass of wine. Maric shifted through the spy's clothing again. "Maybe it's nothing. But I have a bad feeling about this."

"Alright," He said, peering into her pockets. "She had nothing but the dagger and the poison on her…"

"You're all missing the big picture." Mother said, setting the vial down. Everyone looked at her, waiting. "She's elven."

"Elven servants have been rare for the past twenty or so years," Rosamund said. "Briala has kept them from striking against Celene, but even her people have been dwindling."

"She didn't have vallaslin." Cassie said. "So a city elf?"

"Perhaps not." Father murmured, sharing a glance with Mother. Their eyes were sharp with worry, but they said nothing.

"Look!" Maric said, examining her boot. From between the sole and the leather, he plucked the remains of a jagged leaf.

"A piece of plant?" Rosamund asked sardonically. Father reached over and examined the leaf.

"Rashvine nettle," He said. "Very rare. Found only in-"

"The Dales." Mother finished. "The Exalted Plains? We know elves still travel through there."

"Perhaps." Father said.

"We'll need to send a team in to investigate." Mother said. "Perhaps I can get Harding to gather some troops, get Rylen to-"

"No," Cassie said. "I'll go alone."

Rosamund laughed. "A few of Leliana's scouts could do the trick."

"Can we trust them?" Cassie asked. No one answered. "That's what I thought."

"Cassie, it's too dangerous," Father said. "If there _is_ someone trying to kill you-"

"Then a group could bring attention and scare them off." Cassie countered. "I'll be able to slip in unnoticed and search the area."

"I'll go with you," Maric quickly suggested. Cassie rolled her eyes. She loved him, but he had his father's penchant for dumb bravery.

"No." Cassie said flatly. "The heir of Ferelden trouncing through dangerous Elven territory? Not likely."

"Then I could do." Father said. "To help."

"No, I-"

"I think Cassie can handle it herself." Mother cut in firmly. Cassie sighed in relief. Her mother hardly ever forced her will on her own organization, but when she did, there was no challenging her.

"I'll be safe." She assured the table. She watched her mother pluck the leaf from her father's hand and twirl it between her fingers. Her face was unreadable, but behind her eyes, there was a glimmer of sadness. "Mother?"

The Inquisitor looked at her daughter carefully, before whispering, "Be careful."


	2. Escaped

Gregory pulled his hood over his face, listening carefully to the sounds of the alley. A few rats fought over a rotting apple, but besides that, the streets were silent. As carefully as he could, Gregory lowered himself off the window sill, dangled for a moment, before falling to the alley.

Of course, it didn't go as plan- Gregory landed awkwardly and fell onto face.. Groaning, he took account of his body- nothing broken, nothing sprained. A little bruised, but otherwise unhurt. Minrathous was filled with precarious ledges, uneven roads, and dangerously pointy statues; Gregory learned quickly to minimize that damage of any encounters with the oddly deadly architecture.

Gregory pushed himself to his feet and stalked down the alley, trying to stay in the shadows. _Forty one, forty two, forty three_ , he counted the house numbers as he passed beneath them. Once in awhile, he could hear snippets of muted conversations floating from open windows. Did they know what was happening just outside their walls, who was walking in their alley? Did they care?

At house forty seven, Gregory stopped and knocked on the door three times, paused, then knocked twice. After a minute, the door cracked open, and a piercing blue eye peeked out into the darkness. Appraising him for a moment, the door widened and revealed a voluptuous woman, her hair and neck covered painstakingly with a deep blue scarf. Her apron was dusty with flour, and her face was twisted in a frown.

"You're late." She said.

"No, I'm not!" Gregory protested in a fierce whisper. As if to prove him wrong, the clock struck one o'clock, a single chime humming in the air. He cursed under his breath and said, "Sorry, I'm not used to scaling across rooftops in the middle of the night."

The baker scoffed. "Come in." She let him pass by her, into the dark kitchen. A small fire crackled quietly in the fireplace, casting a soft orange glow over the sacks of flour, the cheap iron utensils hanging on the wall, and the beat-up wooden counters.

"Smells good." Gregory said awkwardly. The baker eyed him skeptically, and he examined his feet, unable to meet her gaze. He did not look like a revolutionary, or a slave smuggler, he knew.

"Here," she said after a moment. Ambling over to the sacks of flours, she began carefully moving them aside. Gregory came up beside her, helping, until a small, wooden hatch was revealed from under the sacks. The baker pulled a ring of keys from her apron, carefully selecting one, and unlocked the hatch. When she pulled it open, three pairs of eyes glinted in the firelight, shining with fear. Gregory leaned down.

"It's alright." Gregory said. "We're going to get you out."

The three elven slaves seemed to shrink closer to the ground. Gregory tried to smile reassuringly, but it failed. Eventually, one rose, and extended a hand towards him. A boy, maybe seventeen, with black hair grimy in the dim light. Gregory took his hand and hoisted him out, then his companions- another boy and a girl. All three were starving, little more than a bundle of bones. Their clothes were worn threadbare, shapeless and stained with blood, sweat, dirt, and urine. The girl, with the first boy's black hair and cool blue eyes, had an ugly cut across her cheekbone. The second boy was in better shape than the other two, his arms muscular and his hands bearing the callouses of a warrior or a smith.

"We must be quick." Gregory said. "The carriage is waiting for us over two streets."

"Why so far?" The baker asked.

"To avoid suspicion." Gregory reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sack of golden pieces, handing it to the baker.

"I don't need this." She said gruffly.

"No, but I'd like you to have it." The baker took the sack and shook out five pieces before handing the sack back. Gregory sighed, but didn't protest. "Come," he said, walking to the door. Suddenly, huge booming knocks echoed through the bakery. Everyone froze.

"Madame Revilia!" A voice called. "Magicum Guard! Open up!"

"Go!" The baker whispered angrily. She pushed the elves and Gregory out the door and grabbed a knife from the hanging rack. "I'll buy you all the time I can."

A Soporati with a knife against the Magicum Guard? Gregory's heart ached, but he wrapped his arms around the elves and began to run.

"If we can make it out of the alley," Gregory said. "We'll make it." That dream seemed out of reach, the elves were struggling to walk. The muscular elf picked up the girl, and they managed to pick up speed. As they were nearing the corner, the baker exploded into a ball of flame. The elves shrieked and stopped, but Gregory grabbed them by their arms and pulled them along.

"There's nothing we can do." He said, furiously trying to keep his guilt in check. If he had left earlier, if he had been more careful. She had been no one, only a woman with a kind heart, a willingness to risk something for others. He had been sloppy, careless, unprofessional, stupid, stupid, _stupid_ -

From the flames, three dark figures appeared in the alley. As Gregory and the elves rounded the corner, one of the figures spotted them, shouted incoherently, and launched a ball of flame. It missed, but the elven girl still screamed.

"Hurry!" Gregory called. Down the next alley, another left, over the fence, straight for a block, then another right. The elves stumbled, fell, but always got back up, always kept running. The last alley ended in a brick wall.

"We're doomed!" The skinny elf gasped. Gregory ignored him, bent down, and lifted the heavy iron cover to the sewers. "Get in," he gasped through gritted skinny elf went in first, and then the muscular one lowered the girl down, gently.

"Hurry," Gregory said. One of the guards appeared from around the corner.

"There!" He shouted and lobbed another ball of flame. It struck the muscular elf dead in the chest. He howled and beat at the fire, but nothing helped. Gregory tried to stop himself from retching from the stench of burning flesh as the now-dead body fell to the ground. Gregory lept into the sewer, carefully adjusting the cover once inside the pitch black.

"Neras…" The elven girl wept. "We left Neras."

"He's dead, Iseni." The boy said, holding back his own tears. "We can't do anything for him. Now be _quiet_."

Gregory lit a ball of veilfire, burning a few inches from the palm of his hand. The sewer stank and the water ran brown under their feet. The brick lining was covered in grime and mold. In the distance, small pairs of beady eyes watched them, fearless.

"We must hurry," Gregory whispered. "This way." He led the elves to the north, as quickly as he could shuffle. If the guards came after them now, it would be an easy kill. But if they could make it a few feet away, the guards would have to shuffle after them. They had a fighting chance.

Gregory tried to focus on the sewers, but his mind replayed the boy's death over and over. The bubbling flesh. His eyes wide and white with pain. He could see the bone, glinting and cracking in the obscene heat. There had been no blood, but Gregory bore the stain of that death all the same, like all the other deaths he'd seen.

 _I wish Cassie was here_ , he thought with a sigh. She would be able to shake of the death, she would be able to fight the guards and beat them down into a bloody pulp. She would make a joke of the sewer, lighten the mood, lift the spirits of the elves. But it was only Gregory- poor little Gregory, who could read books and manipulate the Fade, but had to hide in sewers from any fighting.

After five minutes of crawling through the much, Gregory stopped under another sewer cover, lifted it, and was blinded by the now dazzling-light of a fire.

"Sorry, lad." A spindly old Ferelden man bent down, offering his hand. Gregory took it and lifted himself out of the sewer, dripping onto the cobblestones. A few feet away, a patchwork carriage latched onto a burly brown mare.

They both helped the elves from the sewer and into the carriage. The man built a small compartment at the floor of the carriage, big enough for three elves.

 _With only two, it will be a pleasant journey_ , Gregory bitterly thought. Still, he helped the elves inside.

"Where are we going?" The skinny boy asked.

"If you can make it out of the city," Gregory said. "Cumberland. Then you're free to go where you choose."

"But my sister and I have no one!"

"Find an alienage, or a Dalish clan. I'm sure they'll take you in."

"Please, sir." The boy laid a hand on Gregory's, his eyes pleading. He was handsome, in a way. Maybe eighteen. His eyes were so pure, so open. Just like…

"I'm sorry." Gregory brushed him away. "You'll have to find your own way." Gregory turned away and quickly jogged off.

"Till next time!" The Ferelden man called after him, before covering the elves and readjusting his cabbages.

Dawn was fast approaching, and Gregory had little time to go home, so he jogged to the Curia. The city began waking- a few women were setting up their fruit wares alongside the streets, the night guards along the walls switching out with fresh reinforcements. Gregory shrugged off his cloak and shoved it into the trash, in case some of the guards were still looking for him.

The Curia Darinia was one of the oldest and grandest buildings in all of Minrathous, second only to the dwarven embassy. Made by Archon Darinius, the original building was intricately carved from a single chunk of obsidian, reflective in the growing sunlight. The roof was tiered with embellishments of bronze dragons roaring into the sky. Braziers lit with veilfire burned along the walkways and hung from thuribles, coughing out colored, scented smoke. The building was originally only a few stories tall, and housed only a few hundred magisters. Now, the building shot into the sky like a mountain, and sat proud and defiant in the midst of the grimy city.

Gregory kept his head down, walking quickly, but few were at the state building at this hour- only the slaves in charge of keeping the senate clean. None met his face, and Gregory avoided theirs as well. Every slave was another failure for him, another chance not taken. Though, most of the slaves that tended to the Curia were state-owned; relatively well kept and with limited terms of services.

Gregory berated himself silently. _It doesn't matter how well they're kept_ , he thought. _It matters that they're kept at all. Do not make justifications._

Magister Pavus' quarters were not nearly as lavish as some of the other magisters, but they were still grand. Gregory remembered when they operated out of little more than a broom closet. Now, as Gregory approached the bronze inlaid door, he took a moment to appreciate how far he and his mentor had come.

The inside of the office was a plush sitting room, lined with bookshelves filled to the brim, and a few desks for Gregory and the other attendants to conduct their work from. The upholstery was a rich veridium wreathed with silver. To the left was a small door which led to Dorian's personal office. Directly across from the door was a huge painting of Dorian and the Inquisitor, emerging from the rift in time created by Alexius.

Dorian loved the painting ("I look like a _god_!" He exclaimed. "Look at that jawline, that profile- _exquisite_!"). But Gregory hated it. His mother- there was a whisper of her in the painting. A hint of her jawline, of the flow of her hair. Dorian asserts that it's the strongest likeness he's ever seen. But Gregory knew better. His mother had always been pretty, but in the painting, her beauty was warlike and terrifying. Her eyes were the color of the Fade, her hair the color of flame. Her skin like the hottest sands of the Hissing Wastes, her lips cruel and pink as poison. The painter had painted Andraste, not Gregory's mother.

Gregory sat at his desk and began work. A bill proposed by Magister Viren allocated an additional 10% of the budget to the war with the Qunari. Gregory summed up the bill for Dorian to read later- Dorian would vote no, of course, but the bill would pass anyway. The Lucerni were still small after all these years, and could not fight the battle against the anti-Qunari sentiment _as well_ as the corruption within the magisterium itself.

After answering a few more letters and dinner invitations (rejected, obviously _),_ the other attendants filtered in, blurry eyed and groaning from the hangovers plaguing them from last night. The four underlings were a motley crew- mostly Laetans who wanted a voice.

The only Altus of the group sat in the desk next to Gregory-a long-faced girl with string blonde hair and eyes the color of clouds.

"How are you this morning, Cyra?" Gregory asked.

"I demand that, for the rest of the day, no one mentions 'bones.'" She said with a scowl.

"You handle the homicide cases!"

"Yes," She sighed. "And yesterday, a man appeared before court going on and on about bones. Femurs, tibia, sternum. I will have none of that today."

"Alright," Gregory said slowly. "I'll speak none of b-" Cyra flinched and Gregory rolled his eyes. Cyra had very little patience in general, but was a good woman, and remarkably delicate with her magic.

The twins were moving in sync, as they often did. They had been working for Dorian for over two years, but Gregory still had trouble telling who was Velia and Gavia. From what he could tell, Velia's hooded eyes were a lighter shade of brown, and Gavia had a small mole on her hairline. Besides that, the twins were identical. Their cool, brown skin was shocking against their silver embroidered headcoverings and wrappings. Neither looked up at Gregory as each yawned and signed the documents on their desks.

Across the room, another mage poured a large glass of wine. "Greg, you want any?" No one called Gregory 'Greg' except for Titus. Gregory turned, smiled, and shook his head at the man. "You need to loosen up, Greg- you look like shit."

Titus did _not_ look like shit. He never did. The Laetan's family was originally from Rivain, and Titus looked as such- his skin was a warm umber. His hair was dreaded down to his waist and each lock ended in a golden bead. Titus was the most beautiful man Gregory had ever seen- save for Dorian, perhaps.

"Cyra," Titus said after taking a long sip of his wine. "Do you go out dancing?"

"Never." She answered, more concerned with how straight she could line up the papers on her desk than with Titus' incessant chatter.

"You should. We all should. I found an excellent tavern just a few miles away. The band plays this lovely tune that makes me think of the bombs of the Qunari."

"That sounds dreadful." Cyra said, confused.

"It is. Everyone gets frightens and leaves. That's the best part- they leave their drinks behind." Titus laughed and the gold beads shook and shone like sunlight. Titus smiled at Gregory warmly. "Perhaps you and I could go sometime- mhm?"

For a heartbeat, Gregory wanted so desperately to say yes. But then, the cold hands of reality shook him out of his lovesick daydream. "Perhaps another night." Gregory said simply before spinning around. Titus sighed dramatically and drank the rest of his wine in peace.

It had been much the same for the last year or so. Titus flirted almost as much as he talked or drank. The only problem was, he only flirted with Gregory. And of course, Gregory would melt under Titus' charming smile. But it would never last, before the memory of Tavin came suddenly into Gregory's mind and ruined it all.

 _Tavin_. Almond shaped eyes, skin soft as new silk. That last night, standing over the bed, his dark hair like a frame around a sorrowful painting. _Forgive me_ , the final words before-

Gregory bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to stop his spiral into painful memories. "Are we ready for the day's briefing?" He asked, standing quickly, shuffling his papers.

"Magister Pavus isn't in yet." Cyra said. As if on cue, Dorian swung the doors open. Gregory suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. No doubt, he had been waiting for the most dramatic moment to burst in.

"Good morning, my young pupils." He said, sweeping his short cape over his shoulders, folding it nicely over his arm. "Titus, I told you not to open that vintage until after noon."

"But it's such a _glorious_ morning, Master Pavus."

"No doubt just a continuation of a _glorious_ night, judging from your grin." Dorian reached over, took a sip from Titus' cup, then said, "The day's briefing, if you all would."

As Dorian sat at his own desk- a heavy, mahogany thing with a peacock decal across the front- in his own office, Gregory considered his friend's face. Still painfully handsome, much to Dorian's delight. His hair was shoulder length, held back with flimsy golden clips and strands. Silver now streaked through the ebony locks, specked through his beard and moustache, but his face was still relatively smooth.

He sipped at his tea as he looked over the day's agenda. "He's calling us into session?"

"So it would seem." Gregory said.

"Radonis hasn't been present for a senate session in four years," Dorian sighed. "I don't like the sound of this."

"Mae would like to meet after the session to discuss a few issues."

"Yes, very good," he waved Gregory away. Before Gregory was able to leave, Dorian said, "How did the delivery go?"

"Less than perfect, but well enough." Gregory said neutrally.

"Good." Dorian replied before returning to his papers.

That had been the setup since the beginning. Dorian and Mae knew next to nothing about the slave smuggling. It was for the best- no amount of torture could force them to reveal information they did not have. Sometimes though, Gregory wondered if they did not really care. When they spoke of the horrors of the Imperium, slavery was mentioned, but only in passing. Yes, they said, slavery would eventually be phased out, but now there were bigger challenges to face.

 _You're being too harsh_ , Gregory said to himself. He sighed, brushed a hand through his hair, and stepped back into the main room.


	3. Leaving the Palace

CHAPTER 3

Maric ran his hands down her spine, his lips soft and fluttery at her neck. Cassie shivered as his stubble tickled her skin.

"You should shave." She said.

"I'm a man grown," he whispered. "Almost a king. And kings should have beards."

She turned over, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Out there you can be a king, but here, you're just Maric- alright?'

"Does that mean you have to leave 'Imperatrix' at the door?" He countered. Cassie rolled her eyes and he laughed, kissing her wetly. His mouth went lower, across her breasts, her belly, before settling between her legs. Cassie gripped the sheets tightly, her voice caught in her throat.

How well he knew her body now. She had first taken him to bed when she was fifteen, and he was sixteen. She was visiting Denerim and their playful flirtations had gained a fevered passion. When he asked to visit her chambers, she had known it came to a head. How violently they'd thrown themselves against each other, how desperately they tore off their clothes. They had fumbled, struggled, labored over their lovemaking. Now, Maric's body was as familiar as her own. She knew the scar that ran just past his hairline from a nasty fall as a child, she knew the ripple of his shoulder muscles as he lifted her up. And now, she could appreciate his shining brown eyes looking up at her from between her legs.

"Marry me," he whispered after he was done.

"You got a little something on your face." She said flatly. Maric rubbed his face into the sheets, then wrapped his arms around her, drawing her up and into him.

"Marry me, Cassie." He said softly. For a moment, looking into his soft eyes, his hopeful smile, she almost said yes.

"I'm thirsty," she said, pulling herself free and sliding out of bed. She went and poured herself a glass of wine, sipping it quietly. Her quarters were dark, with only a few candles lit and the light of the moon slicing into the darkness. Goosebumps rose on her skin from the chill night air.

"You don't love me," Maric moaned melodramatically. Cassie suppressed a sigh and turned to him.

"I don't want to have this argument again, Maric." Cassie said. "I could never marry you- you need a Queen."

"Don't try to make me believe you'd be anything less than a wonderful queen," he said, leaning against the headboard. "Is it… is it me?"

"Maric, don't be such a child."

"You know I wouldn't ask you to stay," he said, suddenly soft and sweet in his voice. "I know you, Cassie- I wouldn't force you to stay in my bed and only my bed."

"I know that, love." She said, coming to him, sitting on the edge of the bed. In the dim light, he looked like his father, handsome and proud. "I know you'd never ask me to do anything that I didn't want to. But it's not that. It's the fact that you could. No matter how much freedom you gave me, it'd still be yours to give. I- I can't live like that, you know that, my love." She stroked his face. Sadly, he kissed her palm, pressing the calloused flesh gently to his lips.

"You'll be safe out there, when you go to the Dales?" He said after a moment. "Not everyone is as agreeable as me."

She laughed and straddled him. His eyes widened as she ran her hands across him, her lips curling into a smile. "Maric, if there are men out there anything like you, I think I'll know exactly what to do to them. Would you like to see?"

The carriage was rickety, but Cassie managed to find a few hours of sleep before Filia shook her awake.

"We're about to leave your parents." She said.

"Right," Cassie said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She sat up and opened the door, stepping out into the soft, dawn light. They had set out from Halamshiral before the sun rose, to avoid any social obligations that would delay them. Cassie had arranged for the proper gifts to smooth over any faux pas her parents may have committed.

"The skies look clear," Her father said, looking to the south. "Your journey should be smooth."

"Please keep Filia close." Mother said, smoothing the mane of her mare. "It'll be dangerous."

"I still think I should come with you." Her father said, crossing his arms in indignation.

"I know you do." Cassie said as she leaned in and kissed his cheek. Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around her and gave her a squeeze, lifting her off the ground for a moment. In that instant, she felt like a child again, filled with joy and promise.

When he set her back down, Cassie walked over to her mother and took her hand. "I'll return to Skyhold as soon as I can."

"I will send scouts your way." Mother said. "I won't tell them they're looking for you- but it should help if you need reinforcements."

"Mother, I-"

"I know, but do this to ease your old mother's heart?" Cassie sighed and nodded. Her mother smiled and cupped her face. The Inquisitor had aged so. Her auburn hair was streaked with silver, and her eyes and forehead had wrinkles and sunspots. She was still beautiful, Cassie thought, but no longer the young woman, Andraste made flesh. She was an old woman, truly. Only her eyes were still the same- the softest shade of green, like the first leaves of springtime.

Cassie's father had changed too- she considered him as he pulled himself onto his horse. Years of lyrium use had taken a toll on his body, but he was still sturdy and strong. His hair and beard had faded to a white-gold. The bags under his eyes and the wrinkles across his forehead had gotten deeper, his eyes had gotten darker. But when he turned to look at his wife and daughter, nothing but warmth was felt between them.

"I should be off." Cassie said. "Ride safely."

"Andraste guide you." Her mother called after her. Suppressing a roll of her eyes, she stepped back into the carriage.

"I will never understand it." Filia said once her parents were specks on the horizon.

"What?"

"She's the Inquisitor," Filia said. "But when it's just you three, she's just- a woman."

Cassie considered that. She had never separated the entities before. Her mother simply… _Was_. There were different shades of her that Cassie had come to know. The Inquisitor in battle: fierce, unyielding, yet somehow elegant. The diplomatic Inquisitor: polite, charming, but always uncomfortable. When her mother was judging criminals on her throne, Cassie and Gregory would watch from the balcony; their mother become firm, just, but always kind. Sometime, they would sneak under the war table, and listen to the deliberations. There, her mother was more herself: thoughtful, introspective, sardonic, but a conciliator, for her advisors often disagreed.

All of these women lived in her mother, they fought for control. And in the very core, her mother's true self was. Cassie only saw that woman after much coaxing: memories of strawberries and springtime lunches and learning how to braid her hair came flooding back to her. How many times did Cassie stand in front of her mirror, wearing one of her mother's dresses, and prayed to Andraste to become beautiful?

"She's complex," Cassie said finally. "But she's a good woman."

"You know her best." Filia said, pulling out her flask and her embroidery. She took a swig of whiskey and began furiously stitching a butterfly on a flowery field.

"Not really," Cassie said, beginning to feel uncomfortable, but unwilling to show it. "My father does, or Victoria."

"But you're Imperatrix." Filia said simply. Cassie scoffed, which made the dwarf laugh.

The title had been Vivienne's idea. "It's enchanting, darling." The Grand Enchanter had said. "It rings of Inquisitor but has your own, personal touch. Everyone will respect it." Cassie sighed, and wondered if the Iron Lady was watching her from the Maker's side, or wherever she ended up.

She had been right, of course. Without naming her Inquisitor, Mother had given Cassie the ability to speak and act as the Inquisition. But it was a burden as well as a blessing. None of Cassie's actions were ever _her_ actions. They were the doings of an entire organization. No matter if it was as simply as the opera she went to, the dress she wore, or the wench she took to bed. All of it was the Inquisition.

That had led to difficult times, but now, nearing 30, she was at peace. When her mother died, she would be named Inquisitor, and she would know what real power was. As Imperatrix, she investigated and enforced the decrees of the Inquisitor and Divine, but she made no decisions on her own. Her mother took her council, the Divine liked her perspective, but Cassie could not use the Inquisition's forces to do her own bidding. When she became Inquisitor, that would all change.

 _Power_ , she thought. _That's what got you hurt the first time._

"Filia," She said. "Do you ever talk to your parents?"

The dwarf considered the questions. "Occasionally. I send them a letter every now and then. Last Wintersend, they sent me a locket. Pretty little thing- got ten silvers for it."

"Do you wish you could go back to them? Live life as a normal girl?"

Filia laughed. "My family doesn't know anything about normal. I was bound for the Carta anyway, like all Surfacers. Now, I just get to work as I please. Besides, home life wasn't very pleasant to begin with." Cassie was about to ask for more information, but Filia took a huge swig of whiskey, and began working on a forest behind the flowered meadow.

That's how they had met, Filia working for the Carta. When Cassie was twenty, she had walked into her room and discovered Filia, drinking her wine and trying on one of Cassie's dresses.

"A bit long," Fillia had said. "But what do you think of the color?"

After a moment of shock, Cassie said, "Orange does nothing for you- try the teal." And the rest was history. The Inquisitor couldn't be associated with the Carta, but Cassie saw what kind of benefits a relationship could bring. Of course, the Carta brought lyrium along with it.

It had started a few months after their first meeting. Looking back on it now, what could be expected from a twenty year old, given so much power and beauty, but having true control dangled out of her reach? She had convinced herself it was a matter of strength- if she could become a better warrior, a better fighter, her mother would be forced to respect her. Her father would trust her, be proud of her.

The first draught had been painful, burning her throat and bringing tears to her eyes. They had been in the field, surrounded by belligerent members of Bright Hand had been lucky enough to strike Cassie when she only had a few guards on a morning ride. She hid behind a rock as her guards were struck down. As the lyrium coursed through her veins, she felt- magic. Or something like it. Power, twirling around her, caressing her hands. When she leapt from behind the rock, and the mages cast their spells, Cassie felt her power shift around them There was no room for their magic, when she consumed it all. She cut them down like grass, blood turning the ground to mud.

Even now, so many years later, the thought of lyrium made Cassie's mouth water. But she shook those thoughts free as the carriage came to a stop.

"We're here," She said, shaking Filia awake. She had fallen asleep halfway through embroidering what looked to be a deer.

Outside the carriage, Cassie stretched her tired arms and legs. The tavern that stood before them was busy, despite it being only noon. The Lusty Lass, the sign read. Cassie rolled her eyes and turned to the carriage driver.

"Return to Skyhold- me and Filia will be fine here."

The driver seemed confused. "But, my lady, your mother said-"

"I know what my mother said," Cassie said sharply. "Listen to what I'm saying now." The driver swallowed hard and nodded before flicking the reins and driving off.

Cassie let out a sigh of relief. Now, everyone would think she had abandoned the mission for a few drinks and whores. No one would be surprised, and no enemies would be alerted.

"Get us some drinks," she told Filia. "I'll see what I can do about a few horses."

After an hour's deliberation- and many refills of ale- Cassie and Filia were fitted with two, sturdy geldings. As Cassie changed from her traveling gown into her armor, she wondered if the stablemaster had recognized her. Maybe, but he didn't have the look of a spy..

She considered her reflection in the dirty mirror hanging above the work station. Vanity had always been the worst of her sins, next to pride. She had her mother's beauty, but amplified. Her smooth, bright skin. Thick, blond tresses, bound up elegantly. A lithe, muscular body. Underneath her gowns and her armor, her body had few scars, a fact Cassie wore with pride. _How wonderful_ , she thought. _To be beautiful and young._

Another hour later, and Filia and Cassie were on the road again, cutting through the Dales on horseback. The scars of the War of the Lions had been healed for some time, and the land seemed almost untouched by human hands. Still, Cassie felt the ghosts that haunted the land watch them as they passed.


End file.
